


the kiddie like play

by decideophobia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Human, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Unhappy Ending, mention of fake/pretend relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s a special place reserved for you in hell,” Stiles grits out. </p>
<p>Derek smiles sweetly against Stiles’ mouth. “The throne?” he suggests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kiddie like play

**Author's Note:**

> Based on ([x](http://lycantrophies.tumblr.com/image/96797120779)). This has lots of mindless ~~bad~~ porn. For [Jessy](http://hoechlined.tumblr.com/).  
>  Also unbeta'd.

Finals week is tortuous, and seems to get worse with every semester. Stiles isn’t used to this. School was easy, he aced his tests without putting a lot of effort, or work into studying. Now, he’s stumbling out of his last exam, running on cheap energy drinks, kind of sleep-deprived, and he’s pretty sure there’s brain leaking out through his nose, but that might be his imagination. There wasn’t ever time he’s been as exhausted as he’s now, not even when Coach Finstock made him run suicides; those were a piece of cake, in retrospect. 

He scrubs a hand through his hair, breath rushing out of his lungs on a deep exhale. At least it’s over now, and he can focus on the fun aspects of life.

Thing is, he’s horny. Like, god damn, he’s so horny he might bust a nut, because studying all week didn’t leave room for sex, or even a nice round of Stiles time. It’s a tragedy, really. Stiles should work out a studying schedule for the next semester, so he doesn’t end up considering humping the next best person by the end of finals week. 

He should head home, crash, rub one out, or three, and eat junk food until he’s sick with it. Or he could go see Marcus whose text is sitting unanswered in his inbox, telling him he misses Stiles’ cock, and when they can see each other again. He discards the thought, foregoes replying again; practically falls into Derek’s apartment instead as soon as he opens the door, and, boy, is he a sight for sore eyes.

“You look like shit,” Derek tells him, ever the sweet talker. 

“Jeez, don’t butter it up,” Stiles says, dropping his backpack carelessly next to the door. He knows Derek hates it when he does that; everything has its own order at Derek’s place. Stiles doesn’t care about it right now, as he turns, and crowds Derek up against the closed door. They haven’t seen each other all week, but then again Stiles hasn’t seen anyone but Scott for the last couple of days. 

Derek’s hands settle on Stiles’ hips automatically, fitting into the groves and angles as if Derek’s fingers have molded a place for themselves on his skin. Stiles starts mouthing at Derek’s neck, at his jaw, enjoys the way Derek’s stubble makes his lips tingle. Derek gasps harshly, fingers tightening on Stiles’ hips minutely. The noise makes heat pool in Stiles’ stomach, sends a flash of want, and need zing through his body. 

“Is this a booty call?” Derek asks, hands slipping under Stiles’ shirt purposefully. Stiles has a hard time concentrating on anything but the point of contact; of Derek’s fingers leaving burning trails on his skin. It’s maddening.

Stiles huffs out a breath, nips at Derek’s ear. “Nah,” he mutters, drags his nose across Derek’s cheek. “It’s a booty visit,  _duh_

Derek snorts, hands slipping out from under Stiles’ shirt, and traveling up. He brings their mouth together, kissing Stiles with an intensity that almost makes his knees buckle. Stiles moans into it, feeling punch-drunk already from the little touching only. It’s not nearly enough, not at all what he wants, so he presses closer, jerks his hips against Derek’s; it earns him a choked off groan. Stiles grins into the kiss, and Derek bites at his bottom lip in retaliation. He soothes the sting with his tongue, licks at Stiles’ lips until they drop open; swallowing the tiny noise that Stiles can’t help making.

Derek flicks his tongue against Stiles’ teasingly, and draws back to start kissing down the line of Stiles’ neck with little bites, and nips that draw the blood to the surface of Stiles’ skin. Not that he needs to go that extra mile, because Stiles feels like his entire body is alight under Derek’s still rather innocent touch. He tries to grind their hips together, but Derek holds him still with the kind of strength Stiles usually loves about him, but hates when Derek’s using it for his very own advantage. 

So Stiles takes one of Derek’s hands, puts it where he wants it: on his crotch. He can see Derek’s nostrils flare as he takes in a sharp breath, hand fitting perfectly between Stiles’ legs. Stiles covers Derek’s fingers with his own, eyes flicking up to meet Derek’s. His pupils are blown wide, ringed by a sliver of green, and it sends a new wave of heat, and lust washing over Stiles; it always feels amazing to know, to  _see_ what effect he has on Derek. 

Slowly, Derek starts massaging him through the layers of fabric: the pressure, and slight friction are enough to make Stiles’ eyes roll back in his head. It feels so good he might cry, especially when Derek pushes a thigh between Stiles’ knees, working it together with his hand. He tangles the other in Stiles’ hair, and pulls, carefully, until Stiles follows the motion, tipping back his head. He lets his eyes fall shut, giving in to the his other senses. 

It’s like there are firecrackers going off behind Stiles’ closed eyelids when Derek closes his mouth around his pulse point. Stiles loops his arms around Derek’s neck, and holds on for dear life, because he well on his way to heaven. 

Derek draws back, lips disconnecting from Stiles’ skin with a wet noise, and mouths at his jaw. “Come on,” he whispers, as he pushes back from the door; starts walking them towards the bedroom. 

Stiles mourns the loss of Derek’s hand on his crotch, although Derek makes it up by pulling Stiles’ shirt off, before trailing a line of hot, wet kisses over Stiles’ collarbones. 

They topple over each other on Derek’s bed, and Stiles sinks down, pulling Derek with him; spreads his legs to make room for him. Derek slides his hands up Stiles’ thighs. He brushes the tips of their noses together, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His hair looks like a mess, and Stiles cards a hand through it. Derek leans into the touch, and closes his eyes for a moment, face going slack as he sighs softly. It’s beautiful to watch him letting go like that, when his perpetual frown slips off his features, the line around his mouth softens. 

Stiles would be worried about the amount of attention he devotes to watching Derek, and to knowing his little quirks; what it takes to make his pupils blow wide, if he wasn’t on the verge of coming in his pants; if he wasn’t desperately waiting for Derek to get his hands and mouth all over his body. 

Derek brackets Stiles’ head with his forearms, drops his head to brush his lips against Stiles’, but backs away when Stiles opens his mouth for a kiss. 

“Tease,” Stiles says, and embarrassingly enough, it comes out high, and needy. His hips cant up out of their own volition, looking for friction that isn’t there. Derek grins down at him, slow, wolfish, full of promise of what Stiles knows will be amazing, but will probably have him beg for more. 

Derek kisses a trail down his cheek, his neck, sucks at the hollow of his throat, and Stiles realizes he’s following the blush that’s crept up his body. Stiles reaches down, pulls at the hem of Derek’s shirt until Derek gives in, and takes it off. His skin is hot to the touch when Stiles slides his hands up Derek’s sides, and watches him close his eyes for a second; exhale a deep, shuddering breath. 

When he catches Derek’s gaze again, Stiles reaches down to undo the button of his pants. Derek narrows his eyes at him a tad, flicks them to watch Stiles’ hands, as Stiles shoves one of them into his boxers; stroking himself. He groans at the contact, feels his own cock twitch in the circle of his fingers; holy shit, he’s missed this. 

Derek pants harshly, sounding like each breath is being punched out of his lungs. Stiles watches Derek watching his hand move on his dick, view obscured by the fabric of his pants, the boxers. As he braces his feet against the mattress, Stiles starts fucking up into his hand, unable to stop his hips from moving; unable to hold back the breathless gasps and whimpers that fall out of his mouth. He could cry it feels so amazing, and he knows it would be even better if it was Derek’s hand, not his own. 

Stiles hooks two fingers of his free hand into the waistband of Derek’s pants, and pulls him down by it. Derek goes easily enough, lowers his middle against the open V of Stiles’ legs until they’re pressed together. The bulge of Derek’s dick rubs against his own in a way that has Stiles arch his spine; he moans at the pressure, the way Derek starts to purposefully move his hips to create a kind of friction that makes Stiles curl his toes. 

By the time they’re both out of their clothes, Stiles is so keyed up he feels like sobbing, and begging Derek to just give it to him. He’s been so close to coming at least three times, and each time, Derek’s brought him back; kissed his cheek, licked his neck, nipped his bottom lip; whispered soothing words against the corner of Stiles’ mouth, and promised it’ll be worth it.

Stiles has no doubts about it; it’s always worth it in the end with Derek, but he came here for a good, quick fucking to get it out of his system; so he can go home and sleep like a normal person for the first time in a week. It’s a thought at the far edge of his mind right now, though, every nerve ending strung up tight in anticipation of Derek’s touch. 

Derek scrapes his teeth over a nipple, and Stiles keens, bucking up into it. 

“Stop fucking around, Derek,” Stiles hisses, and Derek huffs a little against the hollow of his throat. 

He draws back, grins a shit-eating smirk that Stiles wants to lick off his face; says, “You wanna be exclusive?”

It’s a sort of miracle that Stiles manages to roll his eyes, although he figures it’s probably more kind of muscle memory than anything else. 

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

“Not yet,” Derek says, as his hands slide down Stiles’ thighs, pushing them a little wider, before he brushes a finger over Stiles’ hole; a feather-light touch that has Stiles writhing back into the sheets with the sheer need of having them inside him. 

Derek rubs the pad of a finger against it without pushing inside until Stiles feels like taking matters into his own hands; though Derek notices his impatience, dips down to drag his lips against Stiles’ for a quick kiss. He gets out the lube, coats his fingers in it; and Stiles is about to kick him for taking so long. 

“Sucker,” Stiles says, spreads his legs a little more, and Derek smirks at him, the jackass. His fingers are back at Stiles’ hole, teasing, pushing at it, but never enough to actually sink inside. 

“You know it,” Derek tells him, just as he finally, finally pushes a finger inside in a slow, long shove until the last knuckle. 

Stiles’ breath catches on a sigh, that probably sounds more like a moan, as he arches his back, grinding down on Derek’s finger. 

Derek makes a rough noise, eyes glued to where his digit is disappearing in Stiles’ body, and he’s gripping how own cock that’s flushed a dark red, precome spilling from the tip. It’s a beautiful sight; Stiles loves watching him like this: teasing himself by teasing Stiles; getting himself all worked up over it, his dick straining, and always so sensitive to Stiles’ touch. 

Slowly, Derek withdraws his finger, and pushes it right back in just a moment later, starting up a lazy rhythm that’s drives Stiles insane. He keeps up the pace while mouthing at Stiles’ throat, sucking at the skin here, and there; bites at the tendon of his neck, and soothes the sting with his tongue. It’s all awfully slow, unhurried, because Derek’s a jackass who likes to draw things out; make Stiles whine, and squirm.

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath when he feels a second finger at his rim, rubbing, pushing ever so slightly, while Derek licks a long stripe from the hollow of his throat up to his chin.

“There’s a special place reserved for you in hell,” Stiles grits out. He grinds down, hissing in delight as soon as he feels the sweet stretch of having two of Derek’s fingers inside him.

Derek smiles sweetly against Stiles’ mouth, crooks his fingers inside, and a bubbly feeling wells up somewhere in Stiles’ stomach.

“The throne?” he suggests.

God, he’s so helplessly turned on by Derek being a sassy asshole even during sex, it’s kind of unfair. It makes Stiles want to suck his dick so much more. 

But then Derek starts scissoring his fingers, and every possible retort Stiles came up with dies on his tongue, and instead, he bows his back, groaning. Derek’s knuckles keep catching on his rim, spreading him a little wider with each thrust; the movement ignites little fireworks that travel up his spine. The slick noises of Derek’s fingers moving in and out of him are loud in Stiles’ ears, only fueling the rush of his blood; make him gasp for air.

Derek’s fingers hit his prostate the exact same moment when Stiles hears, and feels, his stomach growling angrily. 

Derek stills entirely, and the heat Stiles feels creeping up his face is for a completely other reason than being turned on. His stomach grumbles another time, pitifully, and only now Stiles realizes the bubbly feeling has nothing to do with sex; it’s hunger. Stiles has been in more embarrassing situations than he can keep track on, but he’s probably never been as mortified by anything ever as he is now. 

When he looks up at Derek, he frowns down at Stiles, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “Are you hungry?” he asks, concern colouring his voice. “What do you wanna eat?”

Stiles gapes at him. This would be funny if Derek wasn’t two fingers deep inside him, making sure Stiles teeters on the edge of orgasm.

Derek narrows his eyes. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

Stiles groans in exasperation, because he’s hungry, and horny, and it seems like he won’t get what he wants any time soon. “Oh my god,” he says, starts moving his hips just to get it going again, because he’s still hard, still aching for release, and because having Derek inside him trumps even food. “Don’t stop.”

Derek twists his fingers, slips a third one in at the same time. The slight burn fades faster than Stiles can comprehend, turning into a pleasurable stretch that makes Stiles’ eyes roll back in his head; gets his blood pumping, and his dick leak precome copiously. 

“I don’t think I have anything good,” Derek says, looking at Stiles like he’s worried, while his fingers crook and twist, brushing up against Stiles’ prostate purposefully. “We could order out.”

Stiles sucks in a breath between gasps, and moans; feels like his lungs are too small for his body. “Are you serious?” he rasps, clutching at Derek’s shoulders, fingers scrabbling against the sweat-slick skin. He can barely form a coherent thought.

Stiles barely even notices the hunger over the heat washing over him; the hot stretch of his hole around Derek’s fingers, and the way they now rub at his prostate, bringing him right to the edge. 

“Of course,” Derek answers, mouth-to-mouth with Stiles, and his breath rushes out coolly over Stiles’ heated face. He shoves his fingers in as deep as they go. Stiles keens with it, fireworks going off behind his eyelids when he shuts his eyes.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Derek wraps a hand around his cock, and Stiles almost weeps with the sensation of it. He strips his dick with quick movements a couple of times, until he slows his hand on an upstroke, closing his fist around the head, squeezing lightly; his fingers lodged against Stiles’ prostate.

Stiles is coming before he even realizes it with a string of breathless, high-pitched noises falling from his mouth as he splatters his stomach and Derek’s hand with his come. There’s an odd feeling in his gut, like he’s free-falling, for a moment, when Derek’s lips are pressed to the corner of his mouth; breathing harsh, finger-fucking him through his orgasm. It’s followed by a moment of utter silence in his head, makes his body go limp. He’s exhausted, even more so than he was before, except this is the good kind, the blissfully fucked out sort of exertion that makes his limbs go heavy; makes him feel happy, and sated. 

Derek’s still panting against the side of his face, his breath fanning out across his skin, and he withdraws his fingers with a wet noise. Stiles lets out an unhappy whimper. 

Derek is still hard, his cock flushed an angry shade of red with precome pooling at the tip. He’s holding himself like he’s afraid he’s going to fall apart if he lets go. There are tiny noises falling from his mouth, almost as if he can’t help himself. Stiles reaches down to replace Derek’s hand with his own, and wraps his fingers around the blood-hot length of him, feels the weight settle into the palm of his hand. Derek buries his face in Stiles’ neck, letting out a noise that sounds as if it’s been punched out of him. 

Stiles’ stomach starts growling again, and he pushes his forehead against Derek’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what’s worse: his stomach loudly roiling while he’s being fingered, or while he’s giving a handjob. 

Derek huffs, shoulders quaking like he’s laughing. He noses up to the hinge of Stiles’ jaw. “What do you wanna eat?”

“Your ass,” Stiles snaps, his face flushing hot all over again while he jacks Derek’s dick with long strokes, just the way he knows Derek’s likes. He twists his hand around the head, rubs a thumb over the slit, and Derek sucks in a sharp breath, muscles coiled tight. 

Derek still manages to smirk at him as he pulls back a little, starts thrusting into the circle of Stiles’ fingers. “Is that an offer?”

Stiles’ dick valiantly attempts to get hard again.

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a dark look in Derek’s eyes, something fierce, that makes the blood boil in Stiles’ veins. He leans in for a searing, bruising kiss. Derek frames his head with his hands, little grunts hitching up his throat while Stiles jacks him, fast, and lacking any finesse, and Derek meets his movements anyway.

Derek’s whole body seizes up as the orgasm rips through him, a shameless groan echoing through the room. His come coats Stiles’ fingers, drips down onto the sheets. Derek’s breathing’s coming harsh, pulling air into his lungs in deep gulps, and he leans against Stiles’. Stiles pushes the wet hair out of Derek’s forehead with his clean hand, pushes Derek’s head down onto his shoulder. 

They stay like that for a couple of moments, each catching their breath. It’s peaceful, quiet, nothing but their laboured breathing filling the air, and it’s the best Stiles has felt in a week. Derek is a solid, anchoring weight against him, the heat of his skin sipping into his own. It’s a kind of intimacy Stiles doesn’t usually have with his fuckbuddies, doesn’t want to have, even, and he’d be thinking about this if he was firing at all cylinders right now. Like this, the thought only fleetingly passes his mind, making room for the blissful peace soaking through him. 

Derek moves first, and grazes his lips gently across Stiles’ before he draws back, and off the bed.

“So, Chinese?” he asks, waving a flyer at Stiles, both eyebrows raised, and a soft smile curling at his mouth. 

*

Stiles spends the night, for the first time, because he’s too tired to move. Even shoveling food into his mouth is almost too much; Derek has to feed him pieces of fried chicken. 

“You should take better care of yourself,” Derek says, lying next to Stiles on the bed, traces his fingertips over the bow of Stiles’ upper lip. “Scott said you ran yourself ragged during finals.”

Stiles frowns. “You talked to Scott?”

Derek shrugs carelessly, undeterred in his mapping of Stiles’ face. “Yeah. Met him at the cafeteria the other day. We grabbed a coffee together.”

Stiles sits up, and Derek’s hand falls away. “I told you,” Stiles says, the anger inside him subdued, outweighed by exhaustion. “No mingling with my friends.”

Derek rolls his eyes. He huffs out a breath, says, “Relax. What am I supposed to do? Ignore him, and act like I don’t know him?” He scowls at Stiles.

“Uh, yeah huh,” Stiles answers, highly tempted to add a  _duh_ . “You don’t know him.”

“Stiles, I was just being polite, is all.”

“Your default mode is dick, let’s keep it that way.”

Derek purses his lips, an annoyed line burrowing around his mouth. He stays quiet, wordless frustration screaming back at Stiles nevertheless. Stiles bows down to him, takes Derek’s face between his hands, and looks him in the eyes.

“You have your life, and I have mine. Let’s not make things unnecessarily complicated by mixing them, okay?” he placates. “I like this. I don’t want it to end. It’s easy, it’s amazeballs, and fun. Do you have fun?”

Derek’s eyes flick over his face, take him in, and then he nods slightly. 

“Great,” Stiles flops back down. “Then let’s keep it easy.”

Derek huffs out a laugh, and covers them both with a blanket.

*

It’s almost noon by the time Stiles wakes up. He blinks blearily against the light streaming through the window. Derek’s missing, but the rich scent of coffee is wafting through the air, and Stiles follows it into the kitchen.

Derek’s in a pair of soft sweats, and a worn-thin short that falls softly over his collarbones. His hair is sleep-ruffled, and he doesn’t look like he’s been awake for much longer than Stiles. He smiles sleepily when Stiles pads into the kitchen, hands him a mug with pitch-black coffee. It’s delicious. Maybe he should stay over more often.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, rubs at his eyes with his free hand. “Thanks.”

They stand side by side at the counter, sipping coffee in silence. He wasn’t lying last night: things are easy with Derek. It’s easy spending time with him without having sex, without it being awkward. With all his other no-string-attachments, as Scott takes to calling them, he’s usually in-and-out, maximum of pleasure, minimum of bullshit; but Derek’s just...Derek. 

He’s the guy who asks Stiles what he wants to eat with his fingers buried in Stiles’ ass. Derek’s unique. 

Which is why Stiles prefers spending time with Derek than with any of his other fuckbuddies, because Derek has, despite the rules they’ve laid down, that special little something that makes Stiles want to stick around, and enjoy the simplicity of what they have. 

The doorbell ringing brings Stiles back, and he raises his eyebrows at Derek. “Did you order breakfast?”

Derek snorts, putting down his mug, and goes to answer the door. There are voices that aren’t familiar wafting over, one of a woman, one of a man. They’re light, happy, and someone’s laughing. When Derek steps back into the kitchen, there’s something panicked in his eyes that Stiles doesn’t quite understand.

He followed by two people: a tall, dark-haired woman who Derek resembles a lot, and an equally tall man with sharp features, and a strong jawline. It’s not hard to guess that they’re his parents.

Stiles grips his mug a little tighter, smiles when Derek comes to stand next to him, puts an arm around his waist, and pulls him close.

“These are my parents,” Derek introduces. “Talia, and Nathan.”

Stiles sticks out a hand, and is met by Talia’s beautiful smile as she takes it. Her grip is firm, just as Nathan’s.

“Mom, Dad,” there’s a tone in Derek’s voice that sets Stiles on edge. “This is Stiles. My boyfriend.”


End file.
